Alone
by justsomewords
Summary: I thought I knew. I thought I understood myself. I thought I knew what was best for me. I thought I had everything under control. I thought I could manage better on my own. I was wrong.


It's been two days since I've slept. I don't know how I'm still even remotely functional. I've been subsisting on energy drinks and stubbornness, I think. Countless tiny bottles for subsistence, a handful of the larger ones for pleasure. Coffee, vaguely fruit flavored, soda flavored, chemical flavored, whatever suited me at the time. There's a small mountain of cans beside me, lumps in my pockets and bag that promise more for later.

There's some part of me that thinks I should eat, but I feel sick. The very thought of eating churns my stomach, the vaguest tingle of heartburn in the back of my throat. I compromise on a bottle of water. We need to stay hydrated, after all. I chase it with another one of the little bottles and add it to the pile.

I don't want to go downstairs anyway. All the food I've stashed in my room has been eaten, empty cartons and bags and boxes added to the pile. Some part of me thinks I should bag it all up and get rid of it, thinks that cleaning up some might help my mood. It doesn't understand how impossible it is. I don't want to, so I won't do it. I can't care about it. I'm not willing to make any concessions to-day.

I don't want to talk to anyone either. Thinking of going downstairs makes my stomach churn just as much as the thought of eating. I don't want to run into her. I spend hours thinking about it, listening to every tiny sound of the house, convincing myself that she's here even when I know she's not. It's been like that for days now. I always curse myself when I hear her come back, calling to what might as well be an empty house that she's home. I should've gone. It's too late now.

I can hear her moving around. She's talking to herself. I feel like she's talking to me. I try not to listen to the words, since they'll just upset me more. I have too many words myself to want to hear hers. The smell of dinner wafts upstairs, creeps around my door and into my nose. I bury my face in my pillow to try to smother it out of me, my stomach gurgling loudly and clenching.

I know she's made enough for me. I know there's a second plate sitting at the table. She knows I'm here, even though my lights are off. She probably saw my shoes by the door. I know she isn't waiting for me to eat her own meal. I know that because if it weren't true, I would feel much more guilty. She doesn't expect me though. She'd call upstairs if she did. She stopped doing that a long time ago.

Part of me thinks it would be okay to go downstairs. Part of me thinks I should. I haven't looked her in the eyes in so long. I wonder if they're sad. No, they're angry. I know they are. I know she hates me for what I'm doing. She hates me for hiding in here and leaving nothing but filth in my wake. She hates me for free-loading and for avoiding her. She hates me because she got left with me when my parents disappeared. She hates me, I'm sure of it.

I started crying. I don't know when. There's a terrible feeling in my chest that is dragging me down. It feels like I'm collapsing upon myself, imploding and inverting like a black hole. That's exactly what it is. A black hole where my heart should be, sucking me in, breaking me down. That's how it's been for days.

No, weeks.

Months.

Years.

Forever.

That's how it's always been.

No, not always.

This voice is new. The one who whispers nothing but poison. The one who whispers only destruction. It knows what I like to hear and how I like to hear it. It knows I'll listen to it. It knows that's why it's here. Because he isn't.

I never thought I would miss him, but I do. I don't know when he disappeared, but he's gone now. I can feel where he used to be. I can feel where he isn't anymore. I know it's my fault, but it's hard to admit all the same. We both know it's my fault.

The new voice knows, too.

It tells me.

I can hear it now, urging me to give in. To dig through the festering trash-heap my room has become and find something forgotten. A few pills, an unmarked bottle of liquor, anything to dull me out. You love how that feels, it reassures me. It's right. I do love how it feels. I love when it's quiet. I love being alone when I feel alone.

I feel so alone right now.

I can't act, even if I wanted to. I've already exhausted my stockpile of drugs, too. Two days since I've slept, five since I've left the house, three since I spoke to another person out loud. The last person I talked to wasn't even a person, just my Allmate. He listens and offers advice, just like he's programmed to. It makes me remember how it used to be. There was a time when I didn't mind him here. There was a time we were whole.

In some ways, the Allmate is better. It feels like the same advice, but I don't have to listen if I don't want to. It is patient and understanding like he never was. It likes me, which he never did. It tries to find solutions that I like. It tries to understand me. Maybe if he had done that, I wouldn't have destroyed him.

Maybe if he had done that, we wouldn't be this way.

The Allmate can't protect us though. It can't find the black thing inside and kill it. It can't counter all of the things it says, it can't refute the certainties it spits. This voice is here instead and we can't stop it or drive it away. We can only endure it. I can only accept that it is what I've allowed it to be. I can only give in to its requests.

I should get some water, I find myself thinking. I should get up and wash my face. No, I should take a full shower. It's been four days since I've bathed. I'll feel better if I drink something and if I bathe, even if I don't eat. It's a compromise. It's something I can do. The minimum to keep myself alive. To survive.

I can hear her downstairs. The dishes are clinking together, the plate she left out being wrapped and left in the fridge beside the night before and the night before that. How many plates will she leave for me before she throws them all out? How many dinners will she make before she throws me out?

My throat tightens and I feel another sob welling inside me. I don't have the energy to cry anymore. It's all I ever do. It's all I've ever done, as far back as I can remember. I've always felt like this, alone and miserable. I've always felt like a burden. I've always been a burden. The one no one really wanted. The one no one bothered with. Just something to play with and discard. Just someone's toy.

My throat hurts so bad, it feels like I could never speak again. I want to say something, but there''s nothing worth saying. I know if I tried to speak, it wouldn't be my own voice coming out anyway. It would be this other thing, spitting venom and acid at anyone who would listen. I know what I would do to anyone who tried to get close to me. I know I wouldn't be able to stop myself. I want it too badly. I want to hurt everyone like I hurt, even if they don't deserve it.

I don't deserve it.

But I guess that doesn't really matter, anyway.

I can taste blood on my tongue. I bit through my lip again. There's no point in crying, so I try not to. I can never really stop myself, but I try so hard. I always try so hard. I can't control myself, though. I've never been good at that. I've never been able to. I'm floating, at the mercy of the tides. I can respond only to suggestion, be it mine or his or that thing's.

It won't stop, though.

No one cares if you cry, it says. It's right, of course. No one cares. I've spent my whole life crying and all I've ever been told is to stop. Don't cry anymore. You're such a crybaby. All you ever do is cry. Cry, cry, cry. I'll give you something to cry about.

I don't even know if I have something to cry about this time. I just can't stop the feeling. It feels like there's never been happiness in the world. No, just that it's never been in my world. I've never felt it, I don't know what it's like. I'll never know.

I need to get a drink. I need to shower. I need to eat something. Any small amount will do. I just need to go. I just need to do it. I need to escape the black thing eating us alive. I need him to be here. I need him to help me. I need his help. I need him.

My eyes are so swollen. It feels like they're weighed down, like my skin is sliding off of my face. My cheeks feel that way too, and my mouth. I feel hollow and heavy all at once. It takes so much effort to push myself up. My arms are shaking. I can't really see. Everything is skewed, like someone dragged their fingers through a wet painting. Everything is there but nothing makes sense.

It takes me too long to recognize my Allmate. He's been sleeping for three days. His fur is matted and disgusting. I've been crying on him and burying my face in his fur. Tears and snot and spit and who knows what else, dried and caked in. I wanted to talk to him, but I couldn't bring myself to. I just held him and cried.

I'm glad he's not real. I would be a terrible pet owner. I can't even bring myself to care for myself. How could I ever care for something else?

My fingers rub gently at the back of his ear, careful not to activate him. I don't want him to see me like this, even though he's programmed to accept me regardless of how terrible I am. He would never judge me, but I still can't reach out to him. I feel stupid. I should be able to. I need help and comfort, but I just can't do it.

My feet hit the floor as I slide to the edge of the bed. I feel like I'm drunk but without the delightful silence and satisfaction of floating. Everything around me seems to be sliding and swaying. It's probably just me.

Water. Shower. Food, maybe. Bed.

Standing up feels impossible, but I've managed somehow. He's helping me. He's trying so hard but he's no good at it. He's good at maintaining, not motivating. We were always the motivators. We were action and inaction. We pushed through it. We fought for dominance. We made things happen, for better or worse.

All I do is make things worse.

I can hear her better now that the door is open. She's doing the dishes. I move slowly, like time has doubled, my feet shuffling numbly across the floor. My heart is pounding and my hands are shaking. I don't want her to hear me. I don't want her to come upstairs. I don't want her to see me or talk to me or yell at me or hit me or throw me out or

The bathroom door shuts behind me, the lock clicking into place.

I stand in front of the sink, my shaking hands twisting the tap. The water is ice cold and I cup it into my palm, bringing it to my face. I should've brought a water bottle to fill. Maybe two. This will have to do for now though. My stomach clenches again as the water hits it, but I have to drink it.

Or I guess I don't.

How long would it take her to find me if I just let myself waste away?

I avoid my reflection, staring at the sink and watching the water twist down the drain. That's what it feels like inside me now. Not drowning in stagnant water but being dragged into a whirlpool. That's just what it feels like. There's an energy to it now. Someone pulled the plug. It's moving now.

Take a shower.

The sink is empty, the shower is on. I automatically adjust it to my preference. Steam starts to fill the room. I peel off my clothes, trying not to think too much about how they look or smell. I'm disgusting, but that's nothing new. I avoided my reflection for the same reason. I don't want to see it. No one wants to see me. I'm just a blight on

The water spills over me, the sharp jets of the shower head piercing my hair straight to the scalp. It hurts, but I have to do it. My hands feel like they don't even belong to me, the act of picking up the shampoo somehow foreign. It's like I'm puppeteering my own body, clumsy and undefined.

The shampoo is cold and smells like synthetic seashore. Part of me thinks I should go back to the beach. I should just go. I should just lay there all day and listen to music. Ren would enjoy playing in the surf. Did Allmates enjoy things? Maybe not. Maybe that was stupid. No, that was definitely stupid. It was a stupid idea.

The shampoo feels too rough on my hair. It feels like it's sucking the life out of it as the grease loosens. It feels so dry and terrible. It's probably a bad sign. I don't know what to do about it, though.

The suds circle the drain as I rinse, the pipe gurgling as it sucks it down. I wish it would suck me down too. It takes me minutes to grab the soap, to scrub it at my tear-stained face and swipe it beneath my arms. It doesn't need to be thorough if that's too much effort. Just the face, the underarms, the crotch, the ass. That's good enough for now.

He is being very gentle, but he's always that way. He's wishy-washy. He lacks conviction. He's why this thing can hurt us. He's the reason we're in so much pain. He can protest but he never acts. He's never enough.

The water is hotter now. It was an impulse to reach back and adjust it, but the moment it warms, I know it was a good decision. I think it might loosen whatever dirt I can't bring myself to wash properly. There's some justification somewhere. That's all I ever need.

I don't know how long I stand under the water. I have an errant thought that I should condition my hair to keep it healthy. It won't feel so terrible if it's cared for. He used to say things like that too. That I let it get shitty and it's my own fault it hurts so much to fix. He liked when I punished myself. He liked to have that satisfaction. He liked knowing I got what I deserved.

Maybe I deserve to feel this way.

The water is hotter again. I turned the cold down more. I can feel the steam when it hits my skin. It's hot enough that it feels almost cold when it hits me. The longer I stand under it, the more I'm convinced it feels cold.

I deserve to feel this way.

No matter how bad I feel, I deserve it.

We're speaking together now. Me and that thing. We agree. I can hear him arguing and pleading, but it's hard to hear him. He's so quiet. He's so far away. That's what happened to the other one too. No matter how loud he yelled, I drowned him out and pushed him down until he vanished.

What would happen if I was alone?

I feel alone.

My hand is shaking really badly. I don't notice until it's gripping the knob again. The fresh cascade of water is scalding. I know I made a sound, but it's only because the steam is choking me now. It's forcing its way inside my mouth and down my throat. It wants me to drown. I want to drown.

It feels good to do this. My skin is white streaked red. It balls when I run my fingers over it. It's peeling up, sloughing off. It'll be clean now, won't it? If I just shed it all and let it run down the drain. If I can just pull it off me. It doesn't matter if it hurts. I'll live.

I just want to do it. It just feels good to feel bad. It doesn't matter if this stupid body gets destroyed. It's weak and hollow and disgusting anyway. I might as well just destroy it. There's nothing good about it. My stupid body, all skin and bones and bruises and hair and scrapes and pain and blood and

The water is off.

I'm sitting over the drain. I'm shaking. I feel completely disconnected. I know he did it. He stopped me. I'll let him do as he wants. I'm weak. I'm broken. That thing is wrapped around me and I can't ignore it. I just want to hurt us. I just want to destroy us. I just want to destroy everything.

He moves us, only getting as far as pulling the towel around our shoulders. Out of the water, every inch of skin is flared up red. It looks painful but I can't feel it. I've gone numb. Maybe it is numb. Maybe we're numb. Maybe I killed the pain. Maybe we'll be as dead outside as we are inside.

We needed him. I did this to us.

The towel feels terrible. I hate it. He barely uses it on our hair. He won't push too far. I can feel it happen. It feels terrible. Fear is overriding those words. I have to know. Is that what I just felt?

The towel has so much hair in it. We're both stunned, shaking from the scalding water and horror alike. Enough to fill a palm. Long blue strands, twisting and curling along the creases in our hand. There's more stuck to our chest and thighs.

Why?

Why?

Why?

The hair makes a decent sized ball when rolled up, discarded into the trash. We don't move for a while. We just breathe. We just shiver and tremble. We try to stabilize. We try to find the balance.

It takes forever to stand. I can't even feel our feet on the floor. I'm disconnected completely. Maybe it's for the best. We move between the bathroom and the bedroom in a sleepwalk haze, trailing water down the hall. Our bedroom feels too cold, but it doesn't matter. The door is locked with fumbling fingers and we fall into bed.

There is a small electronic whir and the dirty blue lump resumes its more doglike state. It greets us automatically but seems almost taken aback by how we look.

I knew it would judge us.

I knew we couldn't trust it.

He speaks softly to it. Our voice is so thin.

He asks it to just talk to us. It doesn't matter what about.

It starts to provide us with vital reports and warnings about our condition.

Anything but that.

It understands.

It moves out of sight for a moment and returns, dragging a blanket in its teeth. It pulled it over us. He thanks it.

It curls up close. I think we might be crying again. It barely feels like anything anymore.

He asks it to talk to us again, about something else.

It summons up old myths and faerie tales. It offers us a list of options.

He does mind which.

Our body doesn't want to stay awake anymore. It doesn't matter. I can feel it turning off, cooked and exhausted. There's no reason to fight it, anyway. It's for the best. He always sleeps to solve problems. Maybe we wouldn't have as many if we just slept.

It's telling us stories now, curled up against our face. It smells bad and its fur is disgusting, but at least we match. It feels good to be close to it. I'm glad I picked it up. I'm glad I fixed it. It feels a little less lonely now.

Its voice drowns out the black thing. It will bide its time. It will be back. It always comes back and we can't stop it. I will hurt us again because of it, I know. It knows. It just needs to wait for us to be alone again.

I wish I could take it back. I wish I could take him back.

I'm sorry.


End file.
